


it's an incredible mess

by ohmytheon



Category: Seven Psychopaths (2012)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 15:26:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4441181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmytheon/pseuds/ohmytheon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That’s what caught his attention: Marty’s at a party, filled with a ton of gorgeous women (and some fairly decent men, should you swing that way), drinking and writing away like there’s no tomorrow, like he’s in his own little world.</p><p>And Billy can’t help but think: Wow, that’s fucking brilliant. What a fucking character.</p><p>[Marty is a planet and Billy is just a piece of shit space debris that orbits him - and he's quite alright with that, so long as Marty knows that he's meant for greatness.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's an incredible mess

**Author's Note:**

> I'm an asshole. So I thought I'd share my suffering with anyone else that came out of this movie like what the fuck Billy just adores Marty so blindly and it's not even fair and this is stupid.

He meets Marty at a party.

Marty at a party. Huh. He likes that. It _rhymes_. It’s got _rhythm_.

Anyways, the first time he meets Marty, it’s at some stupid party that he can’t even remember getting an invite to. Maybe he never got one. Who threw that damn party anyways? Why is he there? He hated parties when he was younger – couldn’t stand them or the people, the loud music, the shouting over the loud music, the “that’s dancing?” dancing, the drunken fools… You get the picture. He hated parties and he didn’t go to them. He was like the lamest kid in high school – that one stuck up asshole that just refused to drink. Of course he drank later on, when he was in college, but it was okay then. Made him feel like he fit in and had friends.

But this party, man this party blows. He doesn’t remember much, if only because it was so long ago – he doesn’t have a drinking problem like Marty – but he remembers seeing Marty for the first time. Stupid lug is chugging back like his twentieth beer or something like that. Maybe it’s only his tenth. Whatever number it is, Marty sure as hell couldn’t remember. But he’s just sitting on a couch, chugging a beer and writing.

That’s what caught his attention: Marty’s at a party, filled with a ton of gorgeous women (and some fairly decent men, should you swing that way), drinking and writing away like there’s no tomorrow, like he’s in his own little world.

And Billy can’t help but think: _Wow, that’s fucking brilliant. What a fucking character._

Of course he didn’t actually talk to Marty then and there. He thinks about it – thinks about it for a long time, like an hour, even after Marty has come to and starts singing some song on the radio in his very loud, very Irish accent. Normally that would’ve irritated the hell out of him, but Marty isn’t singing because he’s drunk. He’s singing the song ironically, laughing at all the idiots that are carrying on like it’s Bach.

When he finally works up the courage to walk up to Marty and say something, maybe make a witty comment, ask him what he’s writing about, ask him “Oh, are you a writer?” or what his favorite book is or his favorite author or quote or historical figure, Billy does nothing of the sort. All he manages to get out is, “Hey,” to which Marty responds with a quizzical look, so Billy ends up repeating himself, “Hey,” and then adds a brilliant, “Are you from Ireland? Because you sound Irish. Am I right?”

Marty never even gets the chance to respond. Billy just furrows his brow, sets his beer down, and walks right out of the party.

It’s a good thing Marty was already so plastered by then that he completely forgot about the whole thing and Billy gets to meet Marty for the first time for a second time. It’s better the second time.

Okay, not really, but he was better.

*

The second first time he meets Marty is a complete disaster. Like on a scale from light sprinkle to a fucking typhoon, it’s that 2012 movie with John Cuzack. (Coincidentally, Marty got him an audition to that movie, but he fucked it up royally by getting into a yelling match with the screenplay writer. It was about protecting Marty’s integrity, you see.)

So somehow or another, they end up going on this double date. Marty was with his girlfriend, not the current bitch but some other floozy that was just trying to sponge off of Marty’s recent success; and Billy was…well, Billy was with some girl he can’t remember. She was a wannabe actress too, one of those east coast girls that came from a rough family but just knew if they came out to Hollywood they’d make it big. Actually, she was fairly nice if he remembered correctly. Too nice.

But whatever. Marty’s girl and his girl know each other and they are all for going out on this double date. Because that’s what adult couples do, or something like that. That’s how they meet new friends. And by god, that girl has to drag him kicking and screaming, but he goes because she picks his favorite restaurant that serves this really good beef queso he likes. So he’s sitting there, sipping on a beer, when his girl jumps up from her stool and starts squealing and hugging this redhead and Billy turns and–

There he is. Martin Faranan. In the fucking flesh. No pen or notebook in sight, maybe tucked in his breast pocket of his nice sports coat, but still.

Billy swallows a chip somewhat painfully and holds out his hand as Marty rolls his eyes in aggravation and sits down. “Hi, Billy. Billy Bickle. Ha, I sound like some infomercial guy, but I’m not. I would be, you know, no complaints about any gig from me, but uh, I’m not.”

“What?” Marty replies, turning to squint at Billy like he’s getting a better look at the other man stuck in this clusterfuck of an adult double date.

So he just repeats himself: “Billy, Billy Bickle,”

“Right. Martin Faranan. D’you know if this place sells Guinness?”

Both of them end up breaking up with their respective girls that night.

Billy wakes up the next morning, bright and early to make burnt toast and jam, and looks over to see Marty passed out drunk on his couch for what will be the first of many times.

It’s a disaster, but he’s always been fond of messy things. And Marty is messy.

*

They go to one of those Hollywood parties. You know the type. It’s filled with tons of D list actors and wannabees, the occasional up and coming director, a few screenplay writers, and that one really creepy camera guy that everyone seems to use even though they should probably be in jail for sexual assault. He hates them, but when Marty asks if he’ll go, well, shit, he’s not going to say _no_.

Friends don’t let friends go to shitty LA parties by themselves, especially when you know said friend is going to get trashed and not have a ride unless he somehow manages to swing into some girl’s pants.

So Billy goes to the party. He cleans up as well as he can, but still can’t figure out how to tie a tie, no matter how many times Marty has showed him. Marty, of course, looks dapper. He looks just like a writer in his glory should look, or at least that’s what Billy thinks. When they walk into the house, Billy knows for a fact that Marty is ten times better than any other screenplay writer here. He outshines them all, outdoes them ten to one, just mops his floor with their so-called masterpieces. Marty doesn’t fit in. He’s too good for this place.

Billy, on the other hand, is the perfect patsy for this party. Can’t get a gig to save his life without Marty’s help, despite his unusual and idiotic charm, can’t do anything without fucking up something first. It’s not that he depends on Marty; it’s just like he likes Marty’s help and he knows that Marty likes giving help, makes him feel good about himself to help someone else on the lower totem pole.

“Hey, Martin!” A guy around their age swaggers over to them. He’s got D-list actor written all over his fake tanned face and knock-off brand name clothing. “Didn’t know if you were going to make it!”

“Yeah, well, I’d nothin’ better to do,” Marty replies as he picks up a beer from a passing girl. He gives the girl an appreciative look as she walks away and then turns back to this new guy. “Dabney wanted me to come, says he wanted to talk about some idea or another.”

“Ah, that’s Dabney for you – he’s got all the ideas but he wants and needs everybody else to do the hard work.”

Billy, feeling decidedly like the third wheel, clears his throat and holds out his hand. “Hi, Billy, Billy Bickle.”

The jerkoff laughs and shoves a thumb in his direction. “Who the hell is this guy? An infomercial man or your date, Martin?”

“I’m his best friend,” Billy tells him, without a hint of irony or anger. He does kind of sound like an infomercial guy. He’s going to have to start changing up how he introduces himself to people.

“Whatever. I’ll be outside at the pool.” He nudges Marty and winks. “There’s some real drunk chicks I’m thinking about scoring.”

Marty smiles – and Billy can see the hesitance in that smile while the other guy is blind – and mutters a goodbye as the unnamed idiot walks away. The smile immediately vanished from Marty’s face when the guy is out of sight and he nearly finishes his beer in one gulp. “That bloke is a fuckin’ twat,” he grumbles after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Yeah, a real fucking twat,” Billy agrees.

Hours later, after the party is over and everyone feels like shit and Marty is damn near passed out in the backseat of his own car and Billy is driving him home dutifully, Billy can’t help but ask, “Why did you invite me to the party?”

“Wha’?”

“Why did you invite me to the party?” He knows that he’s not the best person to invite to parties. He’s got a bad habit of somehow managing to convince people to start fights with him and he’s got a stupid mouth on himself and he gets kind of nervous though he won’t admit it and he hates talking to fake people when he just wants to talk to Marty and, well, he’s _Billy Bickle_. People just didn’t invite him to things. He’d never go to some of these parties if it wasn’t for Marty.

And Marty is plastered and folding in on himself in the backseat, trying to keep warm or get comfortable, but Billy’s sure that he hears Marty mumble something along the lines of, “Because you’re the only person I know who actually likes me instead of just pretending to like me.”

*

In one of his more lucid, sober moments, Marty lets Billy read an old screenplay of his that he wrote a few months ago but hasn’t given to his agent or whoever he gives his writing to.

He’s absolutely entranced the entire time he reads it, can’t put the thing down, spends two days non-stop reading it. He doesn’t sleep, he doesn’t shower, he doesn’t watch tv, he doesn’t even go to work. He just sits at home, reads it straight through, and has his mind blown. He doesn’t even notice that he’s been fired from his job for no call/no show two days in a row. That’s how good this shit is.

When he’s finally finished, he dials up Marty immediately and greets him by saying, “Why the fuck haven’t you given this to someone? This is cinematic gold! You’re sitting on a landmine here!”

Marty responds with, “Everybody else hated it.”

“Everybody else is a fucking idiot.”

“Kaja hated it.”

“Yeah, well, Kaja is a fucking bitch.”

“Don’t say that, Billy. She’s not a fuckin’ bitch. She said it lacked any strong female characters and that’s what’s in now. I dunno. Maybe she’s right. I don’t think I write female characters all that well. I need to work on that.”

“Fuck that! You write women better than they are in real life! I wish I could fuck the girls you write. I wish they were real.”

Marty sighs on the other end. “I don’t know. I haven’t written anythin’ since that though. It’s been ages. I feel like I’m kind of lost, you know? Like I dunno where I’m goin’ or what direction I’m even supposed to be facin’. I’m a writer, but I can’t write anythin’.”

“Well, I’m an actor that can’t act,” Billy tells him, almost gently, “so we must be made for each other.”

When he hangs up the phone after they’ve made plans to go out for drinks, Billy realizes belatedly that Marty didn’t sound drunk at all. He sounded sober – and sad, very sad.

*

He gets the shit beat out of him randomly at a bar. He can’t even remember what happened or how it started. One thing he was at this bar, sipping on a drink, trying to pretend like he gave a shit about some basketball game, and the next he was in an alley curled in the fetal position getting kicked at from like twenty different angles.

It may have been about calling some guy’s girlfriend a hooker (or maybe a whore), but after talking to him for like thirty minutes,  she said that she charge him only twenty dollars for the best blow job of his life. That is the definition of a hooker as far as he knows.

In the end, he’s tossed outside the door onto the sidewalk and lands unceremoniously on the concrete. By the time he staggers to his feet, the door is shut behind him and he’s alone in the dark. He’s never been afraid of the dark, not one tiny bit, but it’s a bit disorienting to be outside at night in a somewhat shady part of town when you feel like you’ve been run over by a herd of hippos. After wiping at a bit of his blood on the sidewalk with his shoe, he manages to drag himself to a phonebooth and dials the only number he can think of.

“Hey, it’s Billy. I just got the shit beat out of me. I think they may have stolen my wallet too. Think you could come pick me up?”

When the car pulls up to the curb, he’s just sitting there on the sidewalk, still right in front of the bar, his chin propped in his hands with his elbows on his knees, looking like a forlorn kid that none of the other kids want to play with. He crawls into the car and gives his savior a toothy smile. “Thanks, man. I didn’t really want to walk like ten miles back home at this hour.”

Marty gives him a once over. “You look like shit.”

“I feel like shit.”

“You are shit. What the fuck did you do?”

“Why do you assume it was something that I did?”

“Because you’re Billy. I know you.”

Billy huffs. “You don’t know me.”

Marty rolls his eyes. “I know you well enough to know that you probably said somethin’ without thinkin’ first and it pissed someone off so you said somethin’ else real smart-like.”

Okay, maybe Marty _did_ know him, but Billy doesn’t care. The rest of the car ride is silent. When they get back to Billy’s place, he thanks Marty, offers him a drink for his gratitude, and they end up watching stupid revenge gangster flicks that Billy loves and drinking beer until the sun comes up. He’s almost more thankful for the company than for the ride. What other kind of friend does that for someone?

*

“So I’ve an idea,” Marty tells him one morning.

Billy sets down the small corgi that he kidnapped three days ago on the couch and plops down next to him. They’ll have to give this dog back to its owners soon, but Billy is always hesitant. He grows to love these dogs, care for them, especially when Marty isn’t around or is with Kaja. He never tells Hans this, of course, but it wounds him a bit. “You have an idea? What is it?”

“’Seven Psychopaths’,” Marty says in this elaborate, excited, mysterious tone.

Billy blinks. “’Seven Psychopaths’.”

“Yeah, ‘Seven Psychopaths’.”

He scratches his head with his left hand and behind the corgi’s ears with his right. “That’s it? Seven Psychopaths? What’s it about? What’s the plot, who are the characters, what’s the theme or whatever other bullshit you writers have to come up with?”

Marty practically scowls as he tags a swig of his Jack and Coke. “It’s about seven psychopaths obviously – but not the stereotypical psychopaths that Hollywood normally parades about. These psychopaths are unique, crazy as fuck, but they come together in the end somehow. Their stories are all tied together in the end.”

“Oh.” Billy ponders this as the corgi looks up at him, smiling his corgi smile as all corgis do. “Got anything written for it yet?”

At this, Marty’s face falls a little. “I, uh, no, I haven’t. I’m still, uh, workin’ out the details, you know.”

Billy just smiles. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something soon enough. You’re Martin Faranan, screenplay writer extraordinaire. Great ideas fall into your lap and great writing comes naturally to you.”


End file.
